


Filth

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Instruction, Mentor/Protégé, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr teaches Sansa a new skill, a new weapon for her arsenal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filth

“Did you enjoy yourself, sweeting?” he asks, in a tone that is only reserved for these rooms. Petyr hands her a glass of freshly poured wine as he does so, their fingers brushing as she takes it. 

Sansa carefully weighs her response. The glint in his eye, the way his lips curl into what could be a general, though slight, smile could be on account of the wine. And perhaps that’s a part of it, but she can tell there is something else. As if he has a tantalizing bit of gossip to share, and cannot wait for her to broach the subject. 

Sansa drinks deep, the wine heavy on her tongue. She’s a little drunk, truth be told, but not so far gone that she can’t plan and evaluate. If nothing else, she learned from him that a state of advanced drunkenness was as good as a death sentence. 

She’s learned quite a lot of things, actually.

“It was a productive evening, wouldn’t you agree?” she finally responses. She can tell that he’s pleased that she didn’t offer empty platitudes, that she’s thinking about the dinner the way she should all events. As an opportunity. 

Petyr nearly collapses into the high backed chair near the fire, one hand extended to her. She sets her wine glass down and takes it, noting his sigh as he pulls her toward him. She wraps her arms around his neck, loosely, and looks down on him. Something about the angle makes her straighten her back, just a bit. 

His skin is warm, the combined effect with the wine, the fire, and something else. She’s glad that she chose a silk gown, despite the cold that lingers as winter leaves them. She feels as flushed as he looks, but it’s not just that. His fingers are splayed against her skin, the feel of his touch through the smooth, thin fabric exciting. 

Petyr reaches up with one hand to cup her chin, holding her in place for a bit, admiring. She’s just beginning to feel that combination of attraction and slight unease, each emotion heightening the other, that is always present when he holds these gazes for a beat too long but then he breaks it, his hand moving upward, fingers grazing her lips. They part at his touch. 

“I feel as though I’ve been remiss in some of my duties,” his says, mouth close to her ear. She shivers despite the warmth. 

She expects him to kiss her then, to draw her out completely as he always does and, as always, give more of himself to her than he seems to be aware of. 

“Oh?” she asks, trying to hit the right tone between intrigued and cautious. Petyr smiles at her again and kisses her, briefly, really nothing more than a brush of the lips. 

“There are many ways to take hold of a man, Sansa. Some of them—a bit safer, may we say?”

She can practically hear the beating of her heart. She’s wet already, the feel of his hands and the press of his growing arousal fogging her mind. She still manages to retain her composure, despite all these sensations, despite the repeated bedtime conversations with Myranda flooding her memory once more, filling in some of the blanks in his sentences. 

Sansa plays the innocent—he likes to see that, even though he knows it is a lie. “What do you mean?”

Petyr clucks his tongue, playfully, and in response she rolls her hips, pressing harder into his erection and staring at him, a combination of sweetness and defiance. She notes the way he bites his lip, the way he takes a moment to regain his own composure, and can’t help but allow a satisfied smile to form on her lips. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I have no reason to complain,” he continues, his voice a bit darker than it was before. “But you have such a skilled mouth, sweetling. It would be a shame to leave it—untested as it were.” 

Her own hands make her way to the front of his breeches, pressing against the length of him with one open palm. Sansa takes his measure under her lashes—his slumped pose, his eyes on her, the way he shudders when she squeezes him in her hand. “Randa told me some things.”

The laughter that escapes him is guttural, his body shaking just a bit. “Telling is not the same as doing. And we learn best from doing, don’t we?”

“Of course.” She tries to keep her words steady, tries to appear as worldly as possible, but her mouth has gone a bit dry and she presses her breasts against him almost instinctively. It’s not weakness, she tells herself, it’s desire. And despite his even words she knows he feels it too. 

She unlaces him then, fingers playing over the length of his cock the same way his did over her lips. It’s a deliberate connection, and one that seems to edge them toward the issue they had been dancing around all this time. 

“Slid down,” Petyr says, his whispered tone sounding both authoritative and desperate in her ear. She complies without a word, sinking to the floor in a puddle of silk skirts. Sansa looks up at him, hand still lightly wrapped around his cock. Amazingly, despite the angle, she still feels as though she is looking down on him. 

“Start slow. Keep a hold of him, and tease him first. Trace him lightly with your tongue.” She obligates, carefully leaning in, tentatively licking the shaft. She notices the way his body tenses as she does this, his sudden intake of breath, and she does it again and again, savoring the feel and taste of him under her. It’s unique, not like anything she had experienced in their encounters before. 

It’s also filthy, an act best reserved for a whorehouse. She would have balked at it years before, but to do so now, and to deny the effect this has on her—her pleasure in watching his eyes close and his hands grip the armrests at only the slightest touch of her tongue—feels almost disingenuous, somehow.

She gripes him tighter, experimentally, and Petyr grabs at her hair, desperately. She pulls back, and the groan that escapes him then goes straight to her core.

“The head,” he says, hands still gripping her hair, now starting to grow loose from its coils. ”Where it meets the shaft. Press your tongue there, next.”

She doesn’t need to be led. She does it gleefully, smiling against the soft, rigid flesh at his whispered response. “Good girl.”

“This feels good?” She asks, pressing down again. He groans in response and she moves her hand up and down, working over him the way she had done countless times before. 

_I’ve been soiled for a long time,_ she thinks, amazed at how little that bothers her now. Not when he seem ready to melt against her. 

_”Yes,”_ he hisses. “Wrap your lips around it now.”

She does so, as wide as she can. The weight of it feels different on her tongue than it does in her hand, but it’s not bad. Petyr must feel the same way—his body arches as she engulfs him, and she tries her best not to smile. 

“Take as much as you can,” is his next command and she does, annoyed that she can’t seem to go down very far. He doesn’t seem to mind, his hips rising to meet her. “And watch the teeth.” 

It’s more than a bit awkward. She nips him more than once (though his body reacts to this with what could only be pleasure) and by now she’s almost painfully wet, finally resorting to reaching under her skirts and sliding her own fingers along her dripping slit, teasing herself as she teases him. She keeps her eyes on him as much as she can, and whenever they make eye contact she feels his body tremble under her mouth. 

She can tell he’s close even with how slow she is being and slides two fingers into herself then. But the pressures not the same, not what she needs at all. Petyr seems to realize this—or perhaps he doesn’t wish to finish in her mouth, as if that’s a line that must not be crossed—and pulls away from her at that moment. Before Sansa can say anything he’s dragging her back into his lap, pushing aside her smallclothes, sinking into her with a grunt. 

She rides him frantically, not at all the way a lady should, but the taste of his sex is still on her lips and these hurried, lusty movements seem more than appropriate. 

Petyr buries his face between her breasts, one hand cupping one through the silk, the other between her legs. He’s speaking—he’s not one to be silent in bed—but his words are a jumbled mess. He’s playing the mentor, though, praising her for her skills.

She comes, a filthy mess of a girl in his lap, and he follows with a grunt, pulling her tightly against himself, still whispering words of praise in her ear, encouragement and admiration. Sansa rests her face against the back of the chair, tiny shocks radiating though her body with each move he makes. When he finally slides out of her and claims her filthy mouth she feels nothing by triumph.


End file.
